


Belly

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:03:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mm," John says, other words rolling like marbles on his tongue, jumbled and cool and unspeakable, but he doesn't need to say them. Rodney knows, curling and twisting, preztling their bodies like both of them aren't forty, like they're limber with youth, vital and oh, oh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Belly

The curtain closes with a screech of metal on metal. All the wonders and glories of Atlantis and still the curtains surrounding each bed are cold metal rods hung with rusting rings that could've come from any home decor shop back on Earth. It's humbling to know, in a way, or maybe John's just feeling humble.

Old. He's feeling old.

The injury isn't a bad one, no, not really, just a twisted ankle he thought he could walk off, the low, dull throb of pain growing bigger and meaner and angrier with each faltering step. But he's old now, ancient, over the hill and skidding his way down to the valley below, and simple things like twisted ankles don't walk off, just get worse until the pain beats behind his eyes, red and white twining together like DNA chains of pure agony.

Teyla found him, of course. Her, who he always wants to impress no matter how many times he reminds himself -- knows, knows and trusts and is proud of -- that she'll beat him every time. She isn't old, Teyla, won't ever be. She's eternal, the Lady of the Lake reaching out across time and space and everything in between to be here, with him, with all of them.

Teyla knows how not to humiliate him, which John is grateful for, but now he's stuck here, trapped among the medicinal miasma of the infirmary, kept locked up overnight for observation and he can't sleep. Can't. It's not the pain, no, that's nothing for all Carson's hennish fussing, the soft touches that feel more like a mother's touch, a friend's, than a doctor's. No, it's because -- 

The curtain screeches again, open and close, the flicker of outside light blinding John to all but the faintest shadow of movement. It's probably a nurse, he thinks, or one of his men to come laugh at the old man who twists his ankle and gets pinned to the bed, hobbled and coddled and old.

"How did I know you wouldn't be able to sleep?"

Not Carson, not a nurse, not his men, but _Rodney_ , with big, big hands that move over him, repositioning him like he weighs nothing -- isn't true, isn't, John knows they weigh almost exactly the same, different frames, different composition, but the scale never wavers -- like it's so easy. It isn't easy, and any other time -- every other time -- there'd be bitching, quiet grumblings of a man who can't work without speech, the flow of words the fuel that moves his arms and legs and fingers and toes, powers that big, big brain and makes it flare brighter than all the heavens John's been too, all the ones he still has yet to see.

"It's just your leg, right?" Rodney asks. He doesn't know how to whisper, not really, but his voice is low, is gentle and fond. Exasperated, but that's part of _gentle._

"Mm," John says, other words rolling like marbles on his tongue, jumbled and cool and unspeakable, but he doesn't need to say them. Rodney knows, curling and twisting, preztling their bodies like both of them aren't forty, like they're limber with youth, vital and oh, oh.

Oh.

John sighs, head drifting up and down as his ear rests against flesh hot enough to chase away the lingering ache in the back of his neck. He brings a hand up, curling, tightening, because he loves this, wants this always, the steady thud and thud and thud of Rodney's heart seeping through the softness of his belly, the curls that should be there, should if he's like John, but he isn't, so different, smooth and soft and mobile, rising and falling to the only lullaby John needs, the steady rush of his blood Atlantis' waves, white noise, familiar, comforting and real.

"How did I know this was what you wanted," Rodney says, teasing, like it's a joke, cosmic joke played on all of them. But he's not teasing like in the labs, cutting and amused with his own wit. This is kitten-teasing, soft and ruffly grey, tiny paws balancing against John's own stomach, stroking and teasing, tugging the hair -- more, so much more compared to Rodney who loses his curls up near his chest, near the nipples John loves to touch and taste -- and soothing the whitened impressions, petting him back to pink clouds and cotton-mouthed rest.

"S'only you," John says, apropos of nothing Rodney could understand. But he does, Rodney always does, minds linked, frequency matched.

"That's right," he murmurs, words a promise John can't find the edges of, doesn't care, because he knows it, trusts it, believes in it. Wants it. "Just me. I'm the only one who can touch you here." Here, alone the curve of his hips, the broad glide of a belly that's bigger than ever before, not so big, not really, but encouraged under each sweep of Rodney's hands. Here, around the rim of his navel, the softer hairs that go low, lower, lowest, where no one can touch him, not any lover, not any wife, only Rodney keeps the tremors, the nervous reactions at bay.

Only Rodney.

"Sleep, John," Rodney says, the words rumbling up through his belly into John's ear, and John's mind, and John's skin, and John sleeps, warm against Rodney's belly, Rodney's hand warm and protecting against his own.


End file.
